


Tears in heaven

by siberianchan



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fics like this are the reason I don't belong in heaven, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/pseuds/siberianchan
Summary: Redemtion, forgiveness, forgetting - and free will.





	Tears in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> The other day on my commute i was reading some fanfic. Cue two street musicians entering, ready to jam.  
> They jammed to "Tears in heaven" and there were many tears in the train.

Tears in heaven

It was supposed to be a nice evening, quiet and calm, with some fine wine and lovely company. It isn't Aziraphale's fault at all that they end up dancing - more or less - after he has put on some vinyl. It just happens with Crowley offering him a hand and pulling him close.

Aziraphale laughs, just a little helpless. “What are you doing?”

“What does it feel like, angel?” Crowley purrs, pulling him close and moving against him, a step, a push and Aziraphale follows the movement.

“I don't know,” he says, although with the next few steps there is a distinct feeling to it, the movement matching the music. Almost as if they are-

“Are we dancing?” he asks.

“No we are riding in a horserace,” Crowley replies, but his words lack the bite such a response would usually accompany. He smiles, his golden eyes warm and gentle as he gently rubs his nose against Aziraphale's. “Glad you noticed. I worried I might be a little rusty.”

“I only ever learned to dance the gavotte,” Aziraphale mumbles, his breath hitching against Crowley's lips.

“I know. It's more than I ever learned, so we're good as we are.” Crowley gently swirls him around, but it makes him dizzier than the fastest whirl.

He places a hand on Crowley's hip and another in his neck and he is so close that their lips brush, just for a moment, like so many times before.

“You are right, dear," he whispers, "I think we are very good.”

The change is palpable in an instant.

At once, all levity is gone, making room for heavy weightlessness, the feeling of being suspended in mid-air, yet their feet are firmly on the ground and they can't run, they can't move in Her presence.

Azpiraphale turns around and wraps his arms around Crowley in a fleeting attempt to shield him as if he could ever shield him from Her.

CROWLEY, She says, ONCE AN ANGEL ONCE A PRINCIPALITY ONCE MY DEAR CHILD WHO FELL

Aziraphale feels Crowley shiver in his arms and he holds him tighter and buries his cheek in his hair, as his demon, his dear, his love tries to be his cheeky, suave self.

“Well, I wouldn't say fall, to begin with, it's more of a-”

Vaguely sauntering downwards, the saying goes, but She doesn't let him finish.

CROWLEY YOU ARE A DEMON WHO LOVES AND PROTECTS HUMANITY AND THE WORLD I CREATED FOR THEM she says, her voice warm and freezing and melting and everything and a void opening inside them, YOU LOVED AND CHERISHED THEM AS I COMMANDED WHEN MY MOST LOYAL ANGELS WOULD NOT YOU LOVED THEM AND YOU DEFIED HELL FOR THEM

“That's... one way to put it,” Crowley manages to get in, “I actually wanted to fuck off- oh, pardon - but I was convinced to fight and I-”  
DEMON CROWLEY REJOICE AS YOU ARE WELCOMED BACK INTO HEAVEN  
_What?_

Aziraphale looks up to the void of Light And Love And Terror That is She That Is God, The Almighty and then looks back at Crowley.

ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN ALL WILL BE FORGOTTEN

His eyes are wide and he shakes his head and he shivers and his fingernails dig into Aziraphale's shoulders. “No,” he whispers, too soft to be heard, almost too soft for Aziraphale to feel, but he feels it, he feels it, it ripples through him, his entire being-

“No! Please, no, no-” Crowley clutches, clings to him, his fingernails dig and bite through the fabric of his vest and shirt and into his skin. “No, please-”

The Hot Cold begins to sear from in-between Aziraphale's arms and he looks down to Crowley, he sees his lovely golden eyes fill with terror and tears as he looks to Aziraphale, “I don't want to leave... I don't want to forget... I want to dance...”

And then it is too little to bear, too much to feel, too long-expected to expect and when Aziraphale blinks again, he is alone, all alone, so alone.

Nothing is undone. Aziraphale still remembers. He still feels, feels Crowley's warmth, his arms, his fingers.  
His shoulders are bleeding.

And Crowley is utterly and truly and terrifyingly gone.

He is denied entrance the first time he tries to re-enter headquarters.

He is not allowed entrance for the next six hundred and seventy four times as well, no matter how much he rails and rages, but finally, at last, he manages to discorporate and show up at the reception, a rueful smile on his lips. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” he says, with a smile, “what a terrible mishap, I'm afraid I need to fill out some paperwork and apply for a new body.”

They have to let him through then, but oh, how sour they look on their faces are that follow him.  
He wanders the halls, he enters the rooms, he fills out the forms.

He is waiting.

He is looking.

He is alone.

Some of the other angels see him and eye him and then quickly move on, he is the angel who defied the Great Plan, after all, the Angel who turned it all upside down, the angel who defied Everything They Ever Knew. And the Angel Who Still Did Not Fall.

He can ignore their looks and go on and fill out papers and-

And-

And-

But.

But there is this feeling. Not at all familiar, but with a hint of acquaintance and he rushes after it, he follows it in a dash, pushes angels out of the way, messes up papers and he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he so. Doesn't. Care.

He runs and runs and runs and for a moment he marvels at how his lungs don't hurt and don't bite an don't fire through the rest of his b- well, of course, he doesn't have a body right now, not yet, not until he is assigned a new one, one he has left specific annotations for.

He rushes and rushes and rushes and rushes and rushes and rushes and-

“Crowley!”

He grabs the angel - their sleeve and watches as they- Him, him, him, very much him, but strangely not him at all - by his sleeve.

“Crowley!”

The angel turns around.

Yes. Those lovely, lovely, lovely golden eyes, the way he turns, the fiery red curls - first indicators, but- but his essence, his essence smells, looks, sounds, feels like him, but-

But the way he looks at him.

“Hello,” he says with a smile so kind, so divine, so bland. “You are quite energetic, aren't you.”

It is him. It is undeniably him, but it is also not-

Crowley always had his experiences show, the good and the bad, Aziraphale had always been able to read him, share in his joys, share in his sorrows.

But-

But this angel looks and feels, feels familiar, but he also is, very much a stranger, so much a stranger that it burns Aziraphale.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale whispers, forcing the words out, “right angel.”

It's a lie. It's the wrong angel. It's the right person.

He can't stay away from him no matter how much he wants to. The approval of his new body is a somewhat lengthy process and a complicated one, even more so since Aziraphale's status with heaven is anything but clear-cut.

He waits and sits and wanders around aimlessly and looks and is being watched, but whenever he meets anyone's gaze they avert their eyes quickly as if in fear he might open his mouth and spew hellfire at them.  
Crowley doesn't avert his eyes whenever they meet.

Aziraphale almost wishes he would.

But Crowley doesn't avert his eyes, he looks at him with mild, friendly curiosity one might have for a stranger. Aziraphale has to remind himself that right now, right here, he is just that to Crowley, has always been a stranger, that he had never joined him on the Eastern Wall six millenia ago, that they never had The Arrangement, that there had never been a reason or context for it.

It's not- it's not-

It's God’s will.

But that doesn't help.

He smiles back. At least he hopes that it is a smile. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the other angel says, “You ran up to me before, didn't you.”

“Yes. I'm terribly sorry, I...” The place that would usually be Aziraphale's lungs hurt, bite into his being and he has to bear it, he has to-

“I think we haven't talked before, have we?” the other angel asks, his golden eyes taking in Aziraphale's appearance. “I don't remember having ever seen you here.”

Aziraphale feels the smile slip. “That is hardly surprising, I-... well I am mostly on earth, I... well, the usual. Watching over humanity. Inspiring them to do good. And such.”

“Ah, yes.” The angel nods and smiles and there is the hint of a smile around their lips, a whiff of what Aziraphale knows. “It must be terribly exhausting to be on Earth constantly.”

“I find it rather interesting”, Aziraphale says.

“That is probably why you are there, then,” the angel concludes.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answers. “That's probably it.” He swallows without lips or a throat.

And then there is the tug at his essence and he isn't sad to say “I am sorry, they finally approved of my body, I- I should go.”

“Yes, of course. Have a safe trip back,” the other angel says and already turns away from him.

Aziraphale wants to reach out wants to take his hand, he wants to feel, know, let know, but-

It would be pointless.

It's not right.

And when he re-corporates and settles back into the body as one settles into a piece of well-worn and freshly washed and mended clothing, the pain is back, as fresh as the moment he has first felt it and so much more intense. He now has lungs to burn, a heart to break, skin to be cold at the realization of something terribly, awfully wrong.

He has a throat to clench up in a sob and he had eyes to grow misty, he-

he has a voice, not only to gently whisper and sigh prayers and praises and it is strangled and drowning.

He has knees to go weak and have him fall to the ground.

“Tsts,” he hears the angel say that had handed him out his body. “You have been too long among the humans, it seems. Maybe you should come back for a while.”

“I-” Come back to heaven. Give up everything, let go, move on, for-

No. No, no, never, never-

He feels tears well up in his eyes. That is not right. that is not right, he cannot cry, not here, not-

He shakes his head. “I will have to think about it.”

No, he doesn't. He does not, he will not, never, he-

“Thank you. Hopefully, I won't have to see you for a while.”

The angel looks at him with the same unfeeling kindness. “You have been on earth too long, Aziraphale. We all will be very happy to welcome you back as you are just as much a child of the Almighty as we all are. Just because you have been a little disobedient in the past, it does not mean that you do not have a place here anymore, quite the opposite. The earth might be an unforgiving, unforgetting place, but we all will gladly embrace you once you are ready. Has The Almighty not elevated a demon and restored his Grace?”

Something bitter rises in him, something firey cold and scratching.

“I-” His voice tastes burned. “I will think about it.” And then leaves the room.

He will not think about it. Never.

On the halls, white and spotless and singing with divine love he sees one russet fleck in the distance and walks a little closer, and then has to turn away as the familiar face looks so strange and distant. No trace, no memory, nothing. All that's left is pain and bitterness and-

_God, Almighty, why..._

ANGEL AZIRAPHALE

Oh.

Aziraphale looks around and finds himself not in heaven, not on earth and - certainly not hell.

He's nowhere and everywhere and surrounded by the Void of Light and Love.  
His wings unfurl, he stretches and reaches out and he is so light that for a single, brief moment he wonders if he might have discorporated again.

ANGEL AZIRAPHALE PRINCIPALITY OF THE EASTERN GATE OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN

The bitterness is back, biting right in his throat with sharp teeth and it reassures him. His body is still there.

“YOU know as well as I do how pointless that title is these days,” he snaps- he snaps at God, the Almighty.  
He might not have lost his body, but he clearly has lost his mind. Or maybe he has just regained it.

ANGEL AZIRAPHALE YOU ARE QUESTIONING MY JUDGEMENT

“Yes!” How exhilarating this single word feels, how it trills on his lips and how much momentum it has, heavy from all his grief, those millenia lived and loved and lost. “Yes I am and I ask- I demand answers! Why! Why did YOU do- why?!”

THE ANGEL WHO WAS ONCE THE DEMON CROWLEY IS DEAR TO YOU ARE YOU NOT HAPPY TO SEE HIM RESTORED TO GRACE AND GOOD

Maybe once he would have been. Maybe, a long time ago, when he had still managed not to question, not to feel.

AND YOU YOURSELF WERE A GLORIOUS INSTRUMENT IN HIS RESCUE AND REINSTATEMENT ANGEL AZIRAPHALE WHO INSPIRED LOVE AND KINDNESS IN THIS HARDENED SCORCHING HEART ANGEL AZIRAPHALE WHO FOUND THE GRACE TO FORGIVE AN UNFORGIVABLE AND FOR SEE AND FIND AND CHERISH THE GOOD-

“He never needed to- he-” Aziraphale struggles for words. “He never- he sought forgiveness, not forgetting!”

THE SIN IS ERASED AND ALL THAT CAME AFTER SO A FORMER DEMON CAN START AFRESH AND ANEW

Crowley had known this, Aziraphale realizes, he must have known, sensed it, he must-

All the heat leaves him.

“He wouldn't have chosen this if YOU had given him the chance,” he says, flatly.

THE FORMER DEMON DID NOT NEED TO CHOOSE FOR I DEEMED HIM REDEEMED AND FORGIVEN

“Ineffability,” Aziraphale says and he feels approval surrounding him. After a moment he continues, “well, that's shit.” It had never occurred to him that swearing could be so easy. “Redemption only coming with forgetting only leads to us falling again.”

Silence fills out the around.

And then The Divine and Almighty God speaks again.

YOU DO WANT THE FORMER DEMON TO REMEMBER

“I... I want him to have a _choice_ ,” he chokes out. “Good, evil, You decided what we are for us, You keep us in heaven no matter what we do, You cast us out for one treacherous thought, You- you gave humans free will and us the capacity of free will but you won't let us exercise it and- and I want a choice and I want him to have one and-”

There they are again, the tears and he has to bury his face in his hands, but of course, it is pointless, an entirely pointless, entirely human gesture to hide his grief from the All-knowing.

It doesn't help that the tears dry up the moment they are in his eyes. “I don't want to be forgotten,” he, at last, confesses, “not by him, not-” Whatever he wants to say otherwise, it drowns in a series of dry, clawing sobs.

REMEMBERING AND REMAINING IN GRACE FOR A MOMENT OF CHOICE COMES WITH A PRICE

There is something reaching into him, easing the heavy weight off his chest, the grip around his throat.

FOR WHAT YOU DO NOT CHOOSE YOU WILL NOT BEAR THE COST I DECLARE

That is not entirely right either.

But Aziraphale is too distracted by the tugging at his very Being to argue.

YOU CHOOSE THAT THE FORMER DEMON SHALL HAVE A CHOICE AND YOU PAY THE PRICE FOR IT ANGEL AZIRAPHALE WHO QUESTIONS MY JUDGEMENT WHO ARGUES AGAINST ME

Oh no, no, this is _not_ how this is gonna be.

“You cannot cast me out of heaven if I leave on my own volition,” he spits, “you hear me, I am done!” He spreads his arms and his wings, spreads them wide open so the tugging can continue. “Take my Grace, if you think you need to! I'll gladly give it!”

BE CAST OUT OF HEAVEN FOR ETERNITY AND SUFFER THE PUNISHMENT THAT IS HELL

“I've been in hell,” Aziraphale snaps, “and you know it. Do you really think it's worse than what is now?!”

His wings still carry him. He has that and when the void closes and spits him out he takes a leap, he runs, he rushes, he spreads his wings and when the bottomless emptiness opens under him he jumps and he sees a flash of red curls and golden eyes and a hint of recognition and realization.

Then the flash is gone and Aziraphale does not look back.

His dive is tailed by a cry of immeasurable grief.

“I'm sorry, dear,” he whispers and as he dives he has to laugh at the fact that as an angel he helped re-establish a demon into heaven and that now he is very much falling for this angel and-

And there is hell and he immediately feels it. It's not even so much the stink of sulfur - that he has come to expect whenever he dealt with any demon other than Crowley, who, both due his mostly absent-from-hell lifestyle and his secret penchant for long, drawn-out bubble baths had only ever smelled of pine tree, rose or lavender, and himself. 

But there is - pressure, like a hammer put on Aziraphale's chest and heat and a subtle taste of dread and despair. Hell is literally designed to be the antithesis to heaven.

Maybe, Aziraphale notes in a daze that can only come from too much happening at once, they have gone a little overboard with the concept.

The entrance is rather unimpressive as well, just a black door and a building he is very sure has seen before in London in the form of a multi-service call center.

How befitting.

As he approaches - on foot now, folding and tucking away his wings as he goes - the ground opens in front of the gate and a familiar shape appears.

“You are not welcome hhhere,” Beelzebub declares with an angry buzz.

“Oh. I am not?” Aziraphale looks around. “I thought this is the place where angels go when they are no longer welcome in heaven.”

“Thhhis is the place for angels casttt out,” Beelzebub sirrs back, agitation creeping in with each word. “You weeere not welcome in Heaven ffforr a lllongggg timeeee aaaand yyyyouuu lllleft, yyyyyou llllleffffffft, yyyyyou wwwwwerrrrre nnnottt cccccasssst outtttt, yyyyyou hhhhhavvvve nnnno pppllllaccce hhhere.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks around. “Just as well. I didn't plan on staying anyways.”

And he turns.

And leaves.

And again he doesn't look back.

He returns to Earth, because what else has he to do? He returns to his bookshop and quietly attempts to resume his life.

He isn't an angel anymore and he is reminded of it daily. His fingers don't blister when he touches one of his antique bibles and he can actually enter St. Paul's without hopping around like a drunken crane.

He has not been damned by God, after all.

Holy water probably has no effect on him as well, but he won't test it.

However, he is not of hell either, there is no talent for evil welling up in him, causing him to create chaos and suffering wherever he goes.

There had never been much of that in Crowley either, to be fair. Although what little capacity he had had sometimes could have very long-lasting effects.

No, his removal from Heaven is more felt than acted out. An angel's Grace suffuses their whole being, keeping them whole and in one piece, in a sense.

Aziraphale is torn apart on the inside, held together only by his body, his memories, his connection to this world, his awareness who he as himself is. Who he is, _what_ he is, is a little fuzzy. Not an angel anymore, definitely not, nor a demon, bit still divine and ethereal - _occult_ , even. 

He left Heaven. Hell did not want him an the feeling was very much mutual.

Humanity. Humanity and no power can ever even attempt to force him away from it again. Sometimes, very rarely, Aziraphale entertains the idea whether this had been Her plan all along.

It is still painful, though, but he gets used to it. He still finds joy in a walk through Hyde Park, he still has a taste for fine wines and good food, he can still cherish music and books and art.

It just feels... dulled, like a fog covering his eyes.

Maybe it is the absence of his Grace.

Maybe it is the fact that he is waiting, waiting, waiting, but-

But that is the way his life is now.

It is alright. If Crowley chose to remain in Heaven, to remain in Grace, that is alright. If Crowley chose to fall again, join Hell again, that is alright, too. As long as Crowley got to choose, Aziraphale can bear whatever the results and he will wait until the end of time and be content.

He is quietly putting books away in the evening, re-shelving a little, after the last few days had brought some sales.

He still doesn't like parting with the books he so painstakingly has sniffed out, dug up and arranged here, but lately there is some definite joy found in helping people navigating around the shelves, finding a book they have been looking for for ages or one that just speaks to them and giving this books into hands that can love and cherish it.

(He also finds an almost gleeful delight in dealing with the occasional mafioso.)

So when he sees a figure passing by the window he doesn't look up at first.

When the door handle is worked, he doesn't look up, because there is a “Closed”-sign in the window and the door is locked.

Even when he hears steps he won't turn around, he just focuses on his books and says, “Sorry, I'm open tomorrow at ten, come back then.” Because maybe he has just forgotten to lock the door.  
There is a moment of silence and an essence fill the room, neither demonic, nor angelic, but - bit eternal, ethereal, _occult-_

No steps. Only, “But what if I wanna dance now, angel?”

The words run a shiver down his spine, a delight, a weightlessness he gets dizzy and now, he slowly turns around and looks and-

and with a burst of choking laughter and tears running down his cheeks he rushes forward and falls into Crowley's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.  
> Yes. I am evil (as in the Crowley way. Maybe more bent on making people sad). People who know me hopefully aren't surprised by this.  
> Also, God I love it when some new content re-awakens my love for a fandom enough for me to write fanfic.
> 
> Beta was done by whiteravensoars and SonyB89 - in case I haven't ripped out your hears enough - go check them out.  
> In case you need something nice to read after this - go check them out.  
> They're awesome.


End file.
